She had to stop thinking that way. Four months was a very long time. She could very well be sick of him at the end of four months.
She closed her eyes at the sensation of his hands on her back, his fingers caressing her daringly exposed skin. His touch felt sinfully good and Frankie felt redeemed. She might have given in, but already it was worth it.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, and he leaned down to brush his smooth-shaven cheek against hers as he whispered in her ear, “I'm not sure you're going to want to hear this, but I think we're dancing to the music from a toilet paper commercial playing on someone's tele vision set.”
Frankie had to laugh. And she knew for a solid fact that after four months, four years, or even four decades, she would never be sick of Simon Hunt.
“Years from now we'll meet in a bar in Casa blanca,” she said, smiling up into his eyes, “and you'll say, ‘Play it, Sam. Play that toilet paper commercial …. ‘ “
“From now on Angel Soft will have a special place in my heart,” Simon teased.
For the next four months, at least …. Frankie shook her head. She had to stop thinking that way. She put her arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Si.”
“With pleasure,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers, first lightly, then harder but still so sweetly.
Frankie angled her head, deepening the kiss, attempting to exorcise all her pessimistic thoughts through the delicious taste of his mouth, through the erotic sensation of his tongue against hers.
He kissed her slowly, languorously, taking his sweet time to thoroughly possess her mouth, and she felt herself melting as time dragged way out and slowed way down.
At this rate, four months could last a lifetime.
His fingers found the bow that held her dress on, and the zipper right below it. He deftly unfastened both, and Frankie felt her dress fall off her, pooling in a puddle of silk at her feet.
Hers was a vulnerable position to be in. While Simon was still fully dressed, she was half naked. She wore only her shoes and thigh-high stockings, and the black lace panties Leila had purchased when she'd bought this dress. But the breeze coming in from the gulf was warm, and the look in Simon's eyes was positively hot. She didn't feel at all exposed.
“I have this fantasy,” he whispered, his hands skimming the length of her body, “that involves us actually making love in a bed.”
“Slowly?” Frankie felt herself tremble as his mouth replaced his hands on her breasts.
“Incredibly slowly,” he murmured, hooking his fingers in her panties and dragging them down her legs.
“I may die. Because, see, I like it fast …. “ She reached for his belt buckle, but he stopped her hands.
“Nuh-uh. Not this time. First we get over to the bed. I'm not taking any chances here.” He picked up a candle and led her slowly, step by step, across the hotel suite and into the bedroom.
It was perfect. He was standing, looking at her, so much desire and need on his face. His tie was askew, his shirt rumpled, and his blond hair fell across his forehead into his eyes. But it didn't matter what he was wearing or not wearing. It didn't matter if they made love on this enormous bed or swinging from the chandeliers. What mattered was his quicksilver smile, the gleam of excitement and amusement sparkling in his eyes, the fact that he could find something to laugh about no matter the situation.
Frankie knew that in all of her fantasies, romantic or otherwise, there had always been one constant—Simon.
He set the candle down on a table next to the bed and crossed toward her. He kissed her, slowly again, deliberately.
Frankie stepped out of her shoes and pulled him back with her, down onto the bed.
He kissed her again, filling her, surrounding her, covering her with his familiar scent, his warmth, his need.
His love.
It was easy to pretend that he loved her totally and completely as he touched and caressed— worshiped—every inch of her body with his hands and his mouth. He took his sweet time, moving excruciatingly slowly, pulling away when she tried to unbutton his shirt or unfasten his belt.
It took forever, a long, sensuous, exquisite forever, but Frankie finally got his shirt off. Near delirious with the sensation, she ran her hands across the smooth muscles of his back and pressed her bare breasts against his chest.
He groaned as he covered her face with kisses, and together they rid him of his pants and shorts. It took him several seconds to cover himself and protect them both, and then he was back beside her.
He pulled her on top of him, entwining their legs and arms, and she closed her eyes, delighting in the sensation of flesh against flesh, soft against hard. He rolled her back around so that she was once more beneath him. She could feel the hard length of his arousal pressed against her belly, and she marveled at his restraint.
She looked up to find his eyes open, a smile on his beautifully shaped lips as he watched her.
“What other fantasies do you have?” she asked breathlessly. “Because we seem to be handling this making-love-in-bed-and-taking-it-really-slowly fantasy pretty damn well.”
His smile widened. “I've got a real good one that involves you and me and the hotel elevator.”
“I've got a major thing for the butcher-block counter in your kitchen,” Frankie admitted.
“Just the butcher block?” Simon asked, his eyes dancing. “Or do I play a part in it too?”
“You've got the starring role,” she told him. She reached up to touch the side of his face with her hand and felt her heart soften as she gazed into the amazing blue eyes of this man who had been her friend for so many years, this man who was now her lover. “It's always been you, Si.”
She could see wonder in his eyes, wonder and a joy she'd never seen before. “Say it,” he breathed. “I want to hear you say it.”
He could read her mind. Frankie knew he could, knew exactly what he wanted to hear. And she knew that by giving him that, she would be giving him everything. There'd be nothing left to hide behind, nothing left to pretend.
“I knew it was what you were telling me when you wore that dress,” he whispered, “but I want to hear the words. Please, Francine …. “
Frankie moistened her lips. “I love you.”
She could have sworn she saw tears appear in Simon's eyes. But then he pulled her close, capturing her mouth in the sweetest of kisses as he slowly and completely filled her.
He moved excruciatingly slowly, and when she would have quickened the pace, he stopped her. Her blood was pounding crazily through her veins as each stroke seemed to take a century to complete.
“Simon—” She opened her eyes to find him watching her again. His face was a picture of intensity, his hair damp and curling with perspiration. “Please …. “
“Don't fight it, Frankie,” he murmured. “Savor
it, go with it The same way you let yourself
love me, let me love you.”
Frankie's dark eyes flashed as she met Simon's steady gaze, but he knew that she decided not to question him as she closed her eyes and lifted her lips for a kiss.
She opened her mouth to him, allowing him to invade her completely, and he felt his own control start to slip. But then he felt her sigh at his caress, felt her begin to relax, moving with him at the pace he set, giving in to his control.
She trusted him. Simon felt a flash of joy nearly as intense as the pleasure he was getting from making love to her.
She trusted him and loved him enough to risk everything—her pride, her self-respect, her heart. He knew Frankie well enough to know that these were not things she'd give up easily.
She moaned a long-drawn-out sigh of pleasure at each of his movements, and he felt his body respond eagerly to the knowledge that she was close to her release.
“Simon …. “ He felt the beginning of her climax as she breathed his name, felt her body clench and tighten around him as she was pushed over the edge. It was all he'd been waiting for. He felt his own rel
ease in slow motion, somersaulting through him, bursting through his veins, exploding in his brain.
And it was then, right there and then, in the aftermath of the explosion, even before Simon could remember something so simple as his name, that he knew.
He didn't need to marry Frankie. He didn't have to marry Frankie. He wanted to marry her.
As she clung to him, still rocked by the intensity of their lovemaking, Simon realized that his most perfect fantasy of all was well within his reach.
A wife—a lover and friend—to laugh with by day and burn with at night. Children—daughters and sons. A sense of peace and belonging he'd never had before ….
“Si, would you mind if we extend our little agreement for another four months?” Frankie's voice sounded sleepy in his ear. “Because I want to spend at least that long making love to you just like this—nice and slow.”
Simon had to laugh as he rolled over, pulling her into his arms. “I wouldn't dream of doing that to you,” he said. “It'd be torture. You've made it more than clear that you like making love only hard and fast.”
Frankie leaned her head against his shoulder, using one hand to outline the muscles on his chest. “That's just like you to prove your point,” she said lightly, “and then make sure you really rub it in.”
“I love you.”
Frankie froze, her palm resting over Simon's heart. She lifted her head and met his warm blue gaze.
“I do,” he added.
She shook her head. “Simon, don't mess things up that way. Just because I said it doesn't mean you have to—”
“Marry me, Frankie.”
It took several seconds for her heart to start beating again, several more before she could speak. Even then, her voice shook. “Bad joke, Hunt.”
“It's not—”
“Don't.” She pulled away from him. “Please. Don't ruin this by saying something I know you couldn't possibly mean.”
“But I do mean it. Francine, I've never been more serious in my entire—”
“Shhh.” She covered his mouth with her hand. “We made our agreement. Four months. If you still feel the same way in four months, well, we'll talk. But I'm not going to spend the next four months with you feeling nervous and trapped by something you said without thinking it through.
I'm going to pretend you never said that. I never heard those words.”
“But, Francine—”
“Simon, please. I know you.”
There were tears in her eyes, threatening to overflow, and Simon backed down. “All right. You win.”
He was rewarded by a kiss and a sweetly sad smile.
“I'm so tired,” Frankie murmured. “Mind if I close my eyes?”
He pushed her hair back from her face. “Not if you don't mind if I wake you up later.”
She smiled sleepily. “For more dancing to the music from toilet paper commercials? Definitely.”
She sighed and shifted into a more comfortable position, her movement taking her out of his arms and turning her away from him. She was already asleep, Simon realized, her breathing slow and steady.
Even in her sleep she was taking care not to cling to him. Even in her sleep she was careful to give him space, to keep her distance.
She said she knew him. But she didn't. She didn't believe him when he spoke directly from his heart.
Of course, she hadn't had the opportunity to read his diaries. Of course, he hadn't kept diaries, so that put them both at a disadvantage.
But he did love her. And he wanted to marry her. Not in four months. Now. He wanted to know today that she was his not just for the next four months, but until the end of time. He wanted that with a conviction that crushed all of his fear, that left him without a single lingering doubt.
But how to make Frankie believe him?
FIFTEEN
SIMON QUIETLY SLIPPED out of bed and gathered his clothes from the floor. He went into the hotel suite's living room, closing the bedroom door gently behind him.
He quickly got dressed, then picked up the telephone and dialed the resort's front desk. “Front desk. How can I help you?” Simon blinked, recognizing the smoky voice on the other end, made raspy from a two-pack-a-day nicotine habit. “Pres?” he asked the resort owner. “What the hell are you doing working the front desk?”
“Simon Hunt.” Preston Seaholm recognized Simon's voice as well. If he was at all curious as to why Simon was staying in one of his most expensive rooms when he had a perfectly good house on Sunrise Key, he didn't say a word. “My night con cierge called to say he'd be late, and my evening concierge couldn't stay—hot date, I think. I actually like to fill in every now and then—keeps my finger on the pulse of the place. Now, if I could only find a day guy who's as dependable—”
Simon sat up. “Are you looking? Because I recently stayed at the Parker House in Boston, and in my book, there's a concierge up there who gets a twenty on a scale from one to ten. His name's Dominic Defeo, and he's worth top dollar. More. And whatever you pay him, you'll get twice your money's worth. Call him—tell him you're a friend of mine.”
Simon could hear Preston writing the name down. “I will. Thanks for the tip. God, if this works out, I'll owe you one. Oh …. here's Manuel now.” There was a pause, then Simon heard Pres say, “No, no—I've got this one, thanks. It's a friend of mine.” Pres returned his attention to Simon. “So like I said at the start of this call, how can I help you?”
“I need a notebook,” Simon said.
“Hmm. I know I have some legal pads in my office.”
“It's got to be spiral bound.”
“Like something a kid would use for school?”
“Exactly.”
“I've seen them at the convenience store downtown,” Pres said. “It's open for another …. twenty minutes.”
“Any chance I can get someone to run out and pick one up for me? I can't leave to get it myself.”
“It's that important?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it's not a problem. Now that Manny's here, I can do it myself.”
“You …. ?”
“See you in a few.”
“Don't you even want to know what I need the notebook for?”
Preston laughed. “Absolutely. But right now I'm your host. It would be rude to ask. But you better believe the day you check out of here, I'm going to show up at your office as your friend, and then you're going to tell me what this is all about. And it better be good.”
“Oh, it is,” Simon said with a slow smile. “It's incredibly good.”
Frankie woke up as Simon slipped into bed beside her and kissed her.
Sunlight was streaming in beneath the heavy curtains and there was the most wonderful fragrant aroma wafting through the air from the other room.
Simon's kisses tasted like mocha-flavored coffee and croissants. How early had he gotten up and called room service?
“What time is it?” she asked.
He drew her into his arms and kissed her again. “Almost seven. Time for breakfast.”
“Seven?” Frankie pulled back from the hypnotizing warmth of his body and the exquisite sensation of their legs tangled together, skin against skin. She could feel his arousal against her, see a reflection of his desire in his eyes. “You're not a morning person. Since when do you get up before seven?”
“I didn't exactly get up,” he said cryptically.
“Then who ordered the room service?”
He just smiled and kissed her again. This time he pushed her away from him when she would have deepened their kiss. “Just go have breakfast.”
Frankie was very confused. “You want me to get out of bed …. now?” He was clearly as hot for her as she was for him, yet he wanted her to… have breakfast.
He gave her another gentle push. “Go.”
There was a gorgeous silk robe lying at the end of the bed, and Simon reached for it, handing it to her.
She had to laugh. “Simon …. can't we have breakfast later
? I want to stay in bed. And I couldn't miss noticing that you—”
“I'll be here when you're done.”
Now she was really stumped. “You're not having breakfast?”
“I had mine already.” He smiled at her. “Go. Humor me.”
Simon settled himself back into the bed as Frankie gazed at him, eyes narrowed. He looked tired, as if he'd been up all night. “What's going on?”
He just smiled.
Frankie pulled on the bathrobe, the silk smooth against her skin, and tied the belt. Giving him one last, long look, she went out the bedroom door and into the living room.
The table on the screened-in balcony was covered with a linen cloth and set with a sumptuous breakfast feast. There was fresh fruit of all kinds, an elegant thermos of coffee, a basket of freshly baked breads and pastries—including croissants, her favorite. There was juice and jam and butter and honey. And right in the middle of the plate that he had set for her was a notebook. A spiral-bound notebook.
It looked exactly like the inexpensive notebooks she'd used as makeshift diaries since she'd been old enough to write.
Curious, she opened the cover to the front page.
Her name was on it, as well as today's date. But it had another date too. It had an end date listed as nearly a year from now.
And the handwriting wasn't hers. It was Simon's.
What was going on?
She sat down in the chair and, pouring herself a cup of that fragrant coffee, she turned the page.
April 28th, it said at the top. That was today.
“Simon arranged for the most incredible breakfast this morning,” she read. “It was waiting for me when I woke up. After breakfast we made love all morning long, and he told me again that he loves me. I'm starting to believe him …. “
What the hell …. ?
Had Simon written diary entries for events that hadn't even happened?
She leafed through the notebook, and indeed, it was entirely filled, from front to back, with his bold handwriting. This was too bizarre. He'd written this as if he were her, recounting actual events.
She turned back to the first page. He told me again that he loves me. I'm starting to believe him ….
The Kissing Game Page 15